


Rain

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e16 Elephant's Memory, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Possessive Sex, Prompt Fic, Public Hand Jobs, Rain Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, There are no goats in this fic either, You're Not Dead Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: He almost died today, and Hotch is determined to ensure it doesn't happen again.





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by the delicious Ato: 
> 
> Two characters caught in a rainstorm, in semi-public, clothes are pushed out of the way and they fuck desperately. The mood is urgent/needy.

Rain beats down on the dark-wet street. It’s the sleeting kind, slamming sideways, and he’s blind and deaf with rivulets of water running from lank hair into narrowed eyes. Cars sweep past from the whiteout, vanishing just as quickly once they’ve passed in a roar of spray and water. Lights from grim-faced shopfronts make yellow eyes in the rippling puddles he passes, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be dry again after this. There’s a _boom_ overhead and a whistling crack that follows. His fingers find his phone in his wet pocket, his suit jacket ruined, his shirt a hopeless case; taps on the screen locked over the message that says _please come find me._

He finds him.

Reid is sitting on a stoop, bowed over himself like someone tucked him there and forgot to fetch him later. The posture that’s never great is now approaching aggressively shitty; long hair hangs over his face and his agile fingers are blue and still on a damp knee. Hotch pauses and studies him through the storm, ignoring the beat of anger as he remembers him standing between their guns and Owen Savage earlier that day, ignoring the beat of fear as his mind pictures the water rushing from the guttering behind the man as blood instead. And that’s what’s on his mind, isn’t it, picturing blood hot and pooling and a shotgun firing. Picturing Reid shot, falling, fallen. Maybe Savage’s gun. Maybe Hotch’s. And that’s the kicker, the reason he was even awake to get this three-a.m. text: he can’t stop thinking of what it would have felt like to shoot his youngest agent.

“This is unprofessional,” he shouts through the rain, and Reid looks up. Face hidden behind mutual misery, it doesn’t stop Hotch from noting the jawline that’s firm and the mouth that’s set into a stubbornly drunk line. And it doesn’t stop him from asking, “Did you…?”

And there’s still something to save here, some reason to be out in this weather searching for a man determined to lose himself, because Reid stands up, all wobbly and pretty behind his determined self-loathing, and says, “No.”

And then he says, “Thank you for looking for me,” like Hotch hadn’t gotten home and noted the empty side of his bed that should have been filled, like they haven’t been doing this ever since he’d scooped a man out of Hankel’s grave and chased away the needle that followed. “I wasn’t completely lost.”

Hotch steps closer once, steps closer again. They’re hidden by the rain, the wind, the hour of the night. He steps once more and is sheltered by the overhang they’re under, out from under the torrential rain but still deafened by the gush and trickle of water from every direction. Reid is cold, his lips blue against a stark-white face and his hair plastered flat, and Hotch knows it’s stupid to keep this going but he still leans forward and tucks a lock of that wayward hair back behind the man’s ear.

“You could have been,” he says, and looks down. At the pooling water that flickers almost red with a passing brake-light. Almost red. Almost lost. Almost alone. Three by three to carry one; he’s sick to realize how much more it would cost to lose this man. “You… could have been.”

_Boom_ and it almost covers the crack in his voice. Almost. Almost, and Reid makes the first move, his hand snapping up with agonising speed and fingers curling sharp through wet hair, dragging Hotch down to meet him. Hotch was right. His lips are cold. They’re cold and bitter-sour with the whiskey he’s been drinking, but they draw him in and don’t let him go and they warm soon enough as Hotch does his best to heat them. It’s heady, inhaling him, breathing in his scent and the alcohol and the gasping, wrenching knowledge that they could have almost had a last without realizing.

Another hand bunches through his shirt and water pools around white fingers. They’re soaked. Hopelessly wet. Reid’s shirt hangs from a skinny frame, outlining him perfectly. Their lips break apart, chests heaving; they look down and discern just how disarrayed they both are.

Pink lips slip open, warmer now, and Hotch watches as a tongue flickers out and traces the outline of them. Crashing forward, hungry now, frantic to know that there’s more of this and terrified still by the memory of red, and _boom_ overhead like a shotgun’s shout as Reid’s back hits the closed door of the shopfront he’d been sitting in. The pane rattles. There’s a moan, from one of them, from both of them, giving in to whatever’s goading them, and it’s not quiet. It couldn’t be quiet or the rain would have stolen it, but Hotch is still sure he felt it more than heard. A guttural moan, male and pained, from deep in a hollow chest. He slips a knee forward, feels lips part to invite his tongue in, takes that invitation. There’s nothing for a time except the shift of wet lips, damp gasping, fingers grasping, and the sodden knowledge that they’re hard, both hard, cocked like shotguns ready to fire.

It’s fast, hot, heavy and Hotch knows this is something new. Something they’ve never done. Anyone could see them and he hisses into his partner’s mouth, rutting forward with an almost territorial need. Anyone could see them, and he’s _savage_ with that knowledge, because they could have lost this today and this reaffirms that they haven’t. That he’s alive to feel the man under him groan, to feel him jerk his hips forward as Hotch slips free and mouths at a damp neck, as buttons are undone with clammy fingers until there’s a sliver of chest that’s just enough for Hotch to clamp his mouth over and suck hard, marking him hard. Marking him well.

_Mine,_ that mark says, because he’s possessive and he would have killed Savage today if it had gone wrong. _Alive,_ that mark says, because he’s tempted to kill him just for the _possibility_. “Mine,” he hisses out loud, and yanks open the other man’s belt, his fly, shoving clothes out of the way. Urgent. Needy. He hopes someone’s watching. He hopes they’re enjoying the show. He looks into Reid’s eyes and the man is fucked: black eyes, red cheeks, his mouth gaping. Almost ready to come already just because Hotch is here, touching him, _owning_ him.

“Yours,” Reid breathes, and Hotch doesn’t hear him because of the rain but he knows the shape of that word on those lips.

“Again,” Hotch tells him. Hand curling down now, curling around a cock hard enough to hurt; he looks down and shivers at the seductive shadows shifting between them, hiding what’s happening but not well enough. He strokes. Once. Twice. Reid moans and trembles and rolls his hips forward, and Hotch is hard enough that his own pants are hurting him. But he has no intention of dealing with that until he’s home, when he can be slow and loving about it, because there’s nothing slow or unimportant about what’s happening right now. “Tell me again.”

“Yours,” Reid chants, eyes shuttering shut. Losing the rhythm. He jack-rabbits into that closed fist, his own hand slapping back against the door as he tries to brace with a cry. Hotch watches as his fingers leave foggy lines on the glass, on the wood, as they slip and close and clench. “Aaron, Aaron, _f-fuck._ I’m yours, please, _please_.”

Hotch shoves forward, hard, pressing him against that door and feeling him tremble as he adjusts his wrist to the new awkward angle. Speeding up, hearing his breathing turn ragged and sharp and ready to shatter. His grip is slick now, there’s a pulsing need to the body under him, but he’s not done. “That’s right,” he commands, his boss voice, sharp and affirming, and Reid jerks at the sound of it, his head thunking against the glass. “And you _do not die._ That’s an order. You are _mine_ and you do not die, Spencer, understand?”

_Boom_ overhead. The storm is moving.

“Yes,” Reid mewls, his head listing to the side. His cheek squeaks on the glass, his hair sticking, and Hotch bites at the throat bared to him as he ruts forward once, twice, stroking _hard_. “Yes, Aaron.”

And something breaks, something sharp in Hotch’s chest, so he chases that slack mouth and covers it with his own. They’re hot now, sweaty, almost fucked, and he whispers into the other man’s mouth, “Come for me,” as lightning whites out the world.

Reid jolts. Shivers. Moans, “Yes,” and does. A hot, slick rush as the thunder follows like a shotgun shot, just as fatal. He slumps in Hotch’s arms, letting himself be kissed frantically, over and over as Hotch tastes his mouth and his throat and his skin. Hotch watches it happen and feels sickly relieved this mess isn’t red. The storm fades, the rain ends, and it won’t ever be read. Because Reid never, absolutely never, breaks a promise.

He will not die.


End file.
